It's Not Easy
by CrimPysche
Summary: It's perhaps not the easiest relationship to maintain, but Greg and Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way. When Sherlock finds out they're dating, everyone seems to know, and they don't intend to let them get away with it. At least, not without a bit of teasing and life-ruining. (Mystrade, rated T for language!)
1. Chapter 1

_(( Hello, everyone! I really did miss a little bit of Mystrade . I won't be posting another chapter f or a couple of weeks, likely, so I did want to get this one up before I forgot! I hope you like it, loads of fun to write!))_

A gentle buzzing sound was all it took to wake Greg up.

He worked on the police force, after all. He had to be a light sleeper, because he didn't know if he'd be waking up at six in the morning or one. Granted, when he knew he wasn't to be disturbed for a little while, he slept like a log. Nobody could ever think of waking him up then.

His partner, of course, was a little bit harder to wake up. It was surprising, really – everything about Mycroft was fine-tuned and exact, like clockwork. And yet, half the time, it seemed that Mycroft would rather enjoy laying back in bed all day than actually going to work. Greg liked to think he had corrupted him somewhat.

Speaking of, he was currently spooning his partner, hugging Mycroft's back close to his front. The man was still clearly asleep, his face relaxed and his shoulders low. Greg nuzzled his nose into Mycroft's hair and kissed his scalp, his arms tightening around him. It took a few moments, but he began to hear the slightly annoyed grunts that signaled Mycroft waking. A smile spread across Greg's face.

"And what…" Greg mumbled into the top of Mycroft's hair, feeling the man start to squirm a little bit in his grasp. "Did I do in order to get the most handsome man in London in my bed, pray tell?"

Mycroft let out a contented sigh, turning about in Greg's arms until they were facing one another. It was so brilliant to see Mycroft like this. From the moment he went into work till the moment he got home, Mycroft Holmes wore a mask. An entire bloody body suit, really. It forbid emotion. Then he came home and he was so easy to stir up a smile, a laugh, a wink. Now, Mycroft was looking at him with contented, sleepy eyes, and he kissed the bottom of the man's chin. "I imagine it required a lot of emotional turmoil, quite a bit of alcohol, and the _other _most handsome man in London."

Greg grinned at him and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of the man's nose. Mycroft grunted in annoyance – always a bit sensitive about his nose, as it turned out. "Don't you have to get to work before I do, sweet?"

Mycroft shut his eyes and, for a few seconds, just pressed himself closer to Greg. Greg obliged happily, his arms curling around the man's pajamas until he was nearly crushing the man against his chest. He could feel Mycroft's heartbeat resounding against his own, and it made him stupidly, sentimentally happy. "I do. Slowly staving off the urge to tell them all to bugger off."

"Can't have that, can we? Who else would run this jolly old country? Besides, you know you love it. Or maybe you just love watching me work on the CCTV when you have a spare moment." Greg teased lightly, although it did bring up a point of minor contention – early in their relationship, Mycroft had confessed to hiring a man to follow Greg about while he was working. Mycroft said that it was purely to make sure he was safe, and Greg believed him. Still, he had laid out a clear rule for him – no bodyguards, or else Greg would go. But Greg couldn't disallow Mycroft the occasional glance on the CCTV. He had made a point of it, in fact, to give a cheeky wave to them every now and then.

"I suppose you're right." Mycroft purred, slowly easing himself out of Greg's grip. He separated himself from Greg and sat up. His grey pajamas were rumpled and his hair stood up at several odd angles. A pillow crease was visible on his face, which highlighted the freckles that he tried so desperately to hide. Giving Greg a slightly sultry smile, he extended a hand to him. "Join me?"

"As tempting as it is," Greg murmured, "I really would rather another hour or two of sleep. Maybe later, eh? After all, we've got the rest of our lives. Or until some nasty wanker manages to get a lucky shot at me."

Mycroft huffed a little and flicked Greg in the nose, murmuring a gentle, "Don't say such things, Gregory," before exiting the bed. Jokes about Greg's death weren't really tolerated, and, to Greg's credit, he had cut down on them.

As Mycroft made his way towards the bathroom, Greg propped his head up on his hand. "Make me, My."

Staring at himself in the mirror (and evidently not liking what he saw, as he grimaced), Mycroft shook his head. "I'll just tell Sherlock about our little relationship and then he'll throttle you with his bare hands. A suitable death, wouldn't you think?"

Greg matched Mycroft's grimace. "Don't remind me. He keeps deducing that I've got a girlfriend, and it's taking all of my willpower not to wipe that smirk off his face. I do rather like my head attached to my body, as it happens, so I'll keep it down."

Mycroft stripped himself and made a movement towards the shower. "I would shudder to think of it, my darling."

Almost immediately, Greg pushed himself out of bed and went to hug Mycroft from behind. Mycroft pressed himself against him, and kissed his cheek. When he spoke again, it was slightly unwilling. "Go back to bed. You've not been sleeping well lately."

"Sorry. Couldn't resist the show." Greg winked at him, before retreating to his bed. When his alarm rang next, Mycroft had already headed off to work. Something vaguely oatmeal-y was smelled from the kitchen, and Greg happily sat down to breakfast.

When he had to leave, he had to check himself in the mirror. After they had moved in together, Mycroft had sat him down and told him what he had to do to escape Sherlock's deductions. Under no circumstances was Greg to use Mycroft's cologne, Greg had to sleep on the same side of the bed, Greg couldn't adopt Mycroft's mannerisms. Greg agreed readily, in order to escape Sherlock's wrath.

Still, though, he let himself have a few allowances. There was a picture of him and Mycroft in his desk, he would send a sappy text to Mycroft every now and then, he would nick a bit of Mycroft's hair products. Mycroft chided at him for being uncareful, but Greg was too much a fool in love to care. He tapped out a happy beat on the steering wheel as he made his way to the Yard. Usually he would've given Mycroft a little goodbye kiss, an 'I love you' – just a precaution. After all, they both worked in dangerous positions.

He settled himself in his office with a cup of coffee and a tune to whistle. It would be paperwork, unless some poor bloke in London got offed before lunch.

The last thing he could remember was the first sip of coffee, before everything went black.

When he woke up again, he was tied to a chair. Blind-folded, as well. Fear struck him cold in the heart. This was it. He was going to be killed, he was going to be tortured, and he wasn't ever going to see the light of day again. Wasn't ever going to see _Mycroft, _again, for that matter, and the last bloody thing he had said to him was how good he looked naked. He pulled weakly at his bonds, feeling the fear start to bloom into panic. When that happened, he mentally shut himself down.

No. He didn't have the faintest idea where he was. That didn't mean death, no. It could be ransom. Could just be interrogation. He just wished he could see who his kidnapper was, because really, if he could overpower him, this would all be over.

The blindfold was removed from his eyes. At first, all Greg was aware of was the harsh light, streaming directly into his eyes. Suddenly, he didn't want to see the light of day anymore – if it was any harsher than that light, that is. There was a figure. Long, lean, and with the most peculiar hair-

Oh, for God's sake.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell are you doing?" Greg coughed out, feeling the faintest pain from his bonds. Now that Sherlock was his kidnapper, Greg felt no fear. Just a hell of a lot of anger. Sherlock didn't say anything, no. He just stood there like a statue before he deftly moved forward and sat on Greg's lap. Both arms went around his neck.

The last time he'd been that close to Sherlock was when the boy had been overdosing. This time, though, the man was all-too sober. And, frankly, was looking at him with awkward eyes that _might _have been alluring. Or an attempt to be alluring, anyway.

Greg stomped his feet on the ground and tried to push away from the man. Hell, if he had to slam his chair against the ground, he would. Thankfully, Sherlock removed himself before Greg had to resort to that measure. "Sherlock. What the hell was that?"

"An experiment." Sherlock replied swiftly, moving behind Greg to untie him. "I've recently been informed about your unholy relationship with my brother, and I was seeing if it was merely an attempt to get closer to me. Given that you rejected my advances, I would say that is not the case. That ruins my best theory, Inspector, so I must ask you – why are you with my brother?"

It was funny, the effect panic had on a person. For a second, Greg felt as if he was going to pass out again. All the work he'd put into making sure Sherlock didn't know, and now Sherlock knew. His mouth went dry and he shook his head. Mycroft wouldn't be angry, no – the politician had even been suggesting that they come clean with their relationship. However, Greg knew that Sherlock had likely told everyone by now, and he wasn't too keen on what they would say. "How…how did you find out?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Inspector, you're even wearing his damn _gel-" _Sherlock hissed, one hand landing in Lestrade's hair. Greg shook his head wildly to dislodge the man's fingers. "John witnessed you two in a restaurant while you two were on a date. According to him, you two were massively fascinated by one another. The conclusion, from there, was obvious."

Greg couldn't bring himself to be angry at John. Hell, he felt bad about not telling the bloke. John would be a bit confused, at first, like everyone would – _Mycroft, _in a _relationship? _But then John would just wish him all the best. "Right. I suppose we've been a bit…clumsy, at that. Yes. We're together."

"Obviously, but _why?" _

"Well." Hell, it was so easy to be sentimental with Mycroft. Clasping Mycroft close to him, sleep still evident in the politician's eyes, and with Mycroft nearly melting against him, Greg could be goddamn Shakespeare. Now? How easy was it to admit that Greg even _loved _him? "I'm quite keen on your brother. He's a…" His mouth went dry, and he coughed. "An incredible bloke. Really, really. An incredible bloke. Nobody better."

Sherlock scoffed and Greg gave an angry grunt. "A likely story, Inspector. What is it, then? After his money? After a promotion, perhaps? Or did you simply want some easy company in your bed?"

Oh, now the bloke had done it.

Greg was up, and Greg was angry. Not quite shouting, no, but he had jumped to his feet. At his full height, Sherlock had to be reminded how much Greg towered over him. "_Bugger off, _you bleeding wanker. You have no idea why the hell we're together, and it's not like a-" A pause. Did Greg really want to say it? "A _machine _like you could understand what that's like."

Greg knew he had hit a nerve. Sherlock shut off whatever emotion he was showing, until Greg might as well have been talking to a wall. "Calm down, Inspector. I merely wanted to pose a few questions to you. Take a seat."

Figuring he had pushed it a tad too far, Greg sat down.

"How long have you two been together, what intentions do you have with him, and how long do you intend to be together?"

Greg took a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. His eyes shut and he tried to think of Mycroft. "We've been together…six months, now. We moved in around the four-month bit. Intentions? Hell, I don't know. All I know is that I don't want to leave him, that's for damn sure. We're very happy together. I don't think I'd ever want to leave him. That enough?"

Greg couldn't bring himself to be angry about the kidnapping any longer. After all, he had little sisters. He had the 'Break her heart and I'll break your skull' talk. This was merely Sherlock's version. Perhaps a little bit crueler, but meant in good-will… or so Greg hoped.

"Barely. What do you see in him, Inspector? I grew up with him, you see – and his past boyfriends haven't been so kind. They've either been after his ambition, his wealth, and on one memorable occasion, merely his physical appearance. Who are you to be any different?" Sherlock's voice was barely restrained, and Greg realized the tone. This was Sherlock worrying.

So Greg just tried to be honest. "He's…he's brilliant. He's funny, he's sweet, and he's stupidly attractive to everyone. He's just got this…this _way _about him, when he speaks. He stares at you like you're the most important thing in the world, and it's just so brilliant to talk to him. He cares so damn much about everything, and you can see it when he talks, and when he's just being _Mycroft, _you just want to hold onto him and not let him go. I love him."

When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock looked a little bit disgusted. Greg couldn't help but snort at him, and he nodded. "I do feel that way, honest. I'd never do anything to hurt him."

"Very well." Sherlock's voice was tight, and he had his nose high up in the air as if he smelled something foul. He gestured his hands somewhere in the darkness. "I imagine you'll be keen on getting back to work soon. I'll accompany you shortly. I'm suppressing the need to vomit, I'll have you know."

Giving him a doggy smile, Greg stood up and brushed off his trousers. "Yes, well, we're all very sentimental and sappy, and we'll do something like kiss in front of you if you don't lay off." He felt childish. "Honestly, Sherlock, we're in a relationship. I'm not planning on killing him. And he's very happy, I imagine."

With that said, Greg disappeared out of the darkened building. He thought about texting Mycroft what had happened, but thought against it. It would be difficult enough to explain to the people at the Yard.


	2. Chapter 2

_((Hello again! Decided to post this up before I leave for two weeks! I really hope you like it – Mycroft's the one character I feel least confident about, but I tried to do him justice. ))_

Occasionally, Mycroft would just sit back and evaluate his life choices.

The first twenty years of his life? A bit of a failure, if looked at objectively. Most of his time then was spent raising a child who just turned out to be a heavy drug-addicted sociopath. His few romantic endeavours had turned out painfully. He had no proper friends to speak of.

After that, of course, it started to turn out for the better. His job would always be his first and only child – he had worked hard to get where he was, and now he could sit back and enjoy all that he had done. Indeed, he controlled the entire British government. What else could a man ask for? Not to mention his brother had turned out for the better, thanks to Lestrade, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. And, of course, there was the _Inspector. _

During work, it was difficult to coax out sentiment from Mycroft. It wasn't that his love for the Inspector wasn't potent enough. No, Mycroft felt like a fool in love. However, he had a reputation as the Iceman, and he fully intended to keep that reputation. When he went home, though, and saw his beautiful Gregory's _face, _he could have been a giggly school-girl. Was it dangerous? Absolutely. Was Mycroft slowly losing the will to care? Of course.

His colleagues didn't know of his relationship. Greg knew of this and fully endorsed it, as none of the Yarders knew either. Mycroft wasn't keen on the looks and the stares he would receive from it. Some of his colleagues were wonderfully innovative – they wouldn't mind the fact that Lestrade was male in the slightest. What they would mind, however, was his social standing. Lestrade, who cursed like a sailor and who often ran about in stained, cheaply-made button-ups. Who was living in a pathetic little flat when Mycroft found him and who worked at the NSY. It would be unbearable.

Anthea knew, of course. She had to. She was charged with programming every hour of Mycroft's life, and sooner or later, she would have had to know why Mycroft scheduled a few hours off every week to go on dates. Although Mycroft occasionally noted the odd withering look from her, she hadn't said anything negative about his relationship. He slid into the backseat with her, folding his umbrella across his lap.

"Something has happened, sir." Anthea reported to him, forever tapping away at her damned Blackberry. "This morning, every gentleman and woman of the Diogenes Club received a text. Within it, it stated that you and the good Inspector are in a romantic relationship. The sender of the text kept his number hidden, but our men have found out that it is your younger brother."

Mycroft grit his teeth, but showed no other sign of emotion. After all, he was working now, and emotions weren't to be tolerated. "I imagine that there is no chance of salvaging this?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. Those who did not receive the text had spread it through word of mouth. I doubt that it will become a public scandal, however, I saw it my duty to warn you." The last phrase was garnished with her smirk, and she tapped another message to her Blackberry.

"I see." If Mycroft sounded weak, it wasn't an accident – he suddenly felt very ill. The oatmeal he had made for breakfast suddenly seemed eager to make an appearance again. It wasn't that he was ashamed of Gregory, of course he wasn't. However, the thought of people knowing that Mycroft Holmes had a weakness, very visible…it sickened him.

Anthea's smirk grew. "Antacid, sir?"

The rest of the car ride passed in silence.

Indeed, when he entered into his office, there wasn't much other talk. There was, however, _staring. _Quite unabashed and quite rude, considering his colleague's social stati. The looks were obvious, and they all said the same thing.

_Oh, Mycroft Holmes fancies a Yarder, does he? _

It wasn't like they weren't all married. A marriage and a family did a good politician make. Mycroft saw all their photos, listened patiently as they showed off their wallets to him. He'd gotten a few odd stares before when he mentioned off-handedly that he was unmarried, but nobody had said anything much. Now? He felt like he was doing something positively _racy _by dating.

It brought back several unpleasant memories. In his childhood, Mycroft had been different. Friendlier, definitely. Hideous, by any standards. Large glasses with thick lenses, unruly ginger hair, freckles that covered every inch of his body. Overweight. Of course he'd gotten picked on, both physically and mentally, and perhaps that had some doing in shutting his emotions down. Perhaps it didn't. Regardless, there had been times when Mycroft's worst fear had been walking across the lunch room and listening to everyone's comments.

Now? Mycroft felt the same. Although his physical features depicted nothing, his face had flashed scarlet as he walked through the silence of the Diogenes Club. He felt insecure for about two minutes, before he just threw his head back and strode with confidence to his office. They didn't enjoy his dating? Good. He could have all of their jobs, and he knew that the majority weren't married happily. Mycroft was powerful, well-off, and he had a relationship that anyone would envy.

With that resolution, Mycroft just sat back in his office and started his work. He worked a good deal in silence, and that was the way he wanted to work. His office had a small window facing the hallway, and every so often, Mycroft would look up to find another face staring at him through the window.

Honestly, they weren't _children. _

Mycroft set his jaw and pounded his pen a little harder onto the paper. Another reason why he enjoyed his relationship with Lestrade. On bad days like these, he could very well go home and lay on the couch with him. Watch some horrible action movie that Lestrade adored and Mycroft secretly enjoyed. Now, however, he would have to last. He leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his temples.

Was he angry at his brother for talking? Not particularly. Very difficult to get angry at his brother anymore. No, he only regarded him as one would an errant toddler – looking for attention. Someone to marvel at him and tell him how brilliant he was. He would have to be punished, but later.

Oh. Someone had came in.

Mycroft knew him well enough. An intern. Young, earnest, looking to rise quickly. Would say yes to anything without really understanding what had been said. Blinking once at him, Mycroft leaned back in his chair and put one hand over his mobile. His usual position. He didn't speak, trusting the boy to proceed.

"Mr. Holmes." A manila folder was clutched to his chest, and Mycroft knew the young boy was nervous. His eyes flicked over him – he had every right to be nervous. Moved all the way from Brighton to get a job in London, lived with his ailing father, needed the money desperately. Damn Greg's influence on him – he felt a bit of pity for the boy. "I was just wondering – I mean, if you're willing – well, not if you're willing-" A deep breath, and the boy tried to start again. "Next week, there's to be a meeting in Russia – Vladivostok – and you're to attend. With me. I mean. It's next Friday. If you'd prefer another, I can get it done, but I just-"

Mycroft put up one hand. "Cease. I'm afraid I will have to decline. I am occupied, next week, and I will not be able to go anywhere. There are multiple suitable replacements, one of which I will refer to you. My deepest apologies."

The intern seemed to perk up. "Oh, that's right! It's your anniversary with your boyfriend, isn't it?"

The pen in Mycroft's hand snapped. He looked up at the boy with one raised eyebrow.

"Oh!" The intern clutched the folder closer to his chest. "I'm sorry, it's just- my Da, before he lost his job, he drank with him. And he goes on and on about you, you know, and he mentioned when you two had your anniversary, and it just…stuck in my mind, I suppose!" He chuckled nervously, pushing one hand through his hair. At Mycroft's obvious displeasure, he decided to keep going. "I think it's really nice of you! To do this, you know! I mean, he must think it's like dating bloody royalty! He's just…you know, bottom of the totem pole. The _muck_ of London, yeah? It must be _so _terrible for you!"

Mycroft blinked at him, once. For a second, he was temporarily stunned by the blind rage that was filtering through his mind. Then he just pointed towards the door. His voice, usually stunted and mild, was dark and heavy. "_Out." _

"But-"

"_Out!"_

The boy scuttled out without another word. Breathing heavy, Mycroft sat back in his chair and wanted to hit something. Anything, really.

Perhaps he would take an early lunch. Yes, that sounded pleasant. He stood up from his desk and ran a hand through his hair, trying to sort out his already completely sorted-out outfit. After all, he'd been promising his Mummy that he would call. That never put him in a particularly good mood, but it would do something to sort out the anger he felt.

How _dare _they.

No, couldn't be angry. Mustn't be angry.

He reached for his mobile with the intention of texting his partner. Gregory always put him in a good mood. The text was short, simple, and sweet.

_Regardless of your social status, regardless of your mannerisms, regardless of what people think of us together, you must remember that I love you more than I can put into words. M_

Lestrade texted him back just a few minutes later.

_Goddamn likewise, honeybun. It's been one hell of a day for me, too. I love you. GL_


	3. Chapter 3

Greg paused as he entered the Yard. It had already been one hell of a morning, and really, he wasn't keen on dealing with Sherlock any more that day. Of course, it'd be a funny story to share with Mycroft. Or, then again, maybe he shouldn't.

It had never been debilitating to Mycroft, but Greg had noticed a distinct insecurity in some of the more…_physical _aspects of his appearance. After all, for everything else his ex-wife was, she had been damn gorgeous. Greg thought Mycroft beautiful, too, and Mycroft never properly brought it up, but there were little glances in the mirror, little frowns, which told Greg that Mycroft thought otherwise.

Greg had never been physically attracted to Sherlock. When he had met him, he'd just been a kid. A kid who needed to be reprimanded and taken care of. He was attractive enough, Greg supposed, but never his type. After all, he could hardly bear being around for Sherlock for more than a half-hour. Still, though, telling _Mycroft _that his younger brother had curled up on his lap in an attempt to unveil Greg's supposed intentions…it might not turn out well.

And things _were _going well in their relationship. Fantastic, actually. Maybe Greg would mention it later, off-handedly. Not make a big deal about it. It seemed like a good enough idea.

By the time he was at his desk with a coffee, he'd completely forgotten that he had called Sherlock a machine. No, his attention was completely directed toward his drink. He didn't _think _that Sherlock would poison him again, but…then again, who could really be sure with that insane bloke? So the coffee was shifted to the side, to be poured down a drain later. Damn it.

Overall? Not a particularly good day, so far. Sally had walked in with her usual half-smirk, half-conciliatory smile face. She had slammed the papers on the desk and walked out. So Greg was left to fill out paperwork in quiet desperation.

An hour had passed in agony before Greg felt his mobile ring. Immediately, he snatched it. It was a happy distraction.

_Regardless of your social status, regardless of your mannerisms, regardless of what people think of us together, you must remember that I love you more than I can put into words. M_

When he had read the text, and then re-read it, and then re-re-read it, Greg just sat back. It wasn't one of the sweetest things that Mycroft had ever done, no, but it was so sincere and so _loving _that Greg just couldn't stop smiling. There were some who thought Mycroft cold, powerful, and devoid of personality. Greg was fighting the urge to show the text to every single person in the Yard to prove them wrong, because damn it all, Mycroft _loved _him and he loved Mycroft.

The Yard didn't know. The divorce had been fairly public, and the Yarders were decent enough about it. They would invite him out to drink, they would offer to sit in his office and do paperwork with him, they made sure Greg wasn't _alone. _There'd been a period of about two weeks after his divorce where Greg had fully intended to drink himself to death. Or, at least, that was where he was heading. He didn't like the person he was during that period of time, and he had the Yarders to thank for pulling him out of it.

Well, _that, _and that was when Mycroft started to express interest in him. Initially, it had been completely platonic – sweet little lunches and talks, phone calls whenever the other was feeling poorly. But _then- _

Hell, he had to respond. A few minutes had passed and Greg was reminiscing like a school girl.

The Yarders didn't know because they disliked Mycroft. Simple enough. Greg didn't want the added stares, the wondering, and the _teasing _(God, how he hated that word!) to his job. It wasn't like Mycroft's people knew about Greg, either. It was a mutual agreement. And Greg was perfectly pleased with it.

_Goddamn likewise, honeybun. It's been one hell of a day for me, too. I love you. GL_

Greg wasn't in the mood to be eloquent. With eloquence came a certain measure of insincerity, and above all, he wanted to be sincere with Mycroft. Besides, Mycroft took a certain amount of pleasure in rendering Greg to an incomprehensible sentimental stumbling fool.

His phone buzzed again almost immediately, and Greg wondered if Mycroft wanted to have a proper conversation. If he wanted _that, _Greg mused, then he should've just called – Mycroft preferred to call, anyway, unless he had a headache or Greg was in the background, because Mycroft knew _damn _well Greg couldn't shut up even if he wanted-

_Shit. _

_Just wanted to alert the Yard to the recent comings and goings, since you lot aren't intelligent enough to figure it out yourself. One Inspector Lestrade is rather intimate with the elder Holmes – a fine match, don't you agree? Go congratulate the lucky man. SH_

Greg could've hit something. Greg wanted to hit something. He hadn't been particularly angry at Sherlock for the kidnapping, because that had been done in good will. Or, at least, the most good will Sherlock Holmes was capable of doing. This, though? This was done in absolute and utter malice, and Greg could envision his hands against Sherlock's throat. Hadn't he realized what he had _done? _For hell's sake, Mycroft would have been _furious! _He would _be _furious!

_Ah. My apologies, Lestrade, you weren't supposed to receive that. Regardless, I do hope this persuades you not to consort with the Holmes family in any manner that could possibly be considered romantic. Ta. SH_

What the hell had happened? Only a half hour ago, Sherlock had seemed grudgingly willing to accept it. Now Sherlock was openly calling him out – it was a challenge. Even Greg could see that. Was Greg willing to have the public (or the Yard) know that he lived with _the _Mycroft Holmes? He wasn't keen on the entire idea, of course, of people knowing – but what was the alternative? _Not _having Mycroft? Impossible.

Groaning, Greg sat back in his chair. Perhaps everyone had received the message, and they were probably gossiping – in various levels of propriety, too. His lips bunched together and he just huddled over his desk. His pen dug into his papers, and he ground his teeth together.

Sherlock had probably just worked himself up and had sent the message. Greg didn't know _anything _about Mycroft's past love life. Hadn't asked. If it had been bad enough…if Sherlock was worried enough…or, perhaps, and very likely, Sherlock was just a dick. A dick who didn't want to see his brother happier than he was.

There was a knock on his door.

Some of the walls in his office were made of glass, which led to a clear view as to who was at his door. For a few seconds, though, Greg didn't want to respond. Responding would mean having a conversation with whoever was on the other side of his door, and Greg _couldn't _have that. He had to prepare himself. He couldn't fall to sentimental pieces, but he also didn't want to make it seem like, heaven forbid, he was with Mycroft for any other reason than that he loved him.

"It's open."

"Seems a poor way to get a promotion, Inspector."

Oh, God help him. Dimmock.

He and Dimmock had never done well. Dimmock was young and cruelly ambitious, ready to trample everyone in order to prove that he was right. He was often not right, of course, but nobody thought to tell him that. Dimmock called him an old dog who relied in Sherlock not only to get a scent, but to bring the rabbit back to him. At the end of the day, Greg just thought that he was jealous of his position. After all, Greg outranked him. And there was something delightful about that.

"Yeah." Greg sat back on his desk, propping his feet up on his desk. "Dimmock, if you're going to cause problems, I'm just going to have to report you. Another time, mind. I don't see why my personal business has got to be thrown all about the Yard, but, hell, we're not going to make it into an issue. Got it?"

There was a tone in his voice that was probably very influential in getting Greg his title. There were times when Greg could drift completely into Detective Inspector mode. His voice was authoritative and commanding, but with a certain kind element that made people keen on listening to him. Sherlock called it his 'Da voice'. Greg liked to think he just knew how to talk to people.

Unfortunately, Dimmock wasn't having any of that for now. He let the door open a crack behind him, the usual smirk on his face. Greg had looked up his history ages ago – born rich and wealthy, yes, but his parents had been away often. The man had had to raise himself. In that way, Greg felt sorry for him, but he felt if he ever let his sympathies show, he'd get a slap to the face. "Though, really, there are others who would give you an easier promotion. People less…_Holmesian." _

"Look, it's not _like _that." Greg finally protested, looking up at him from his seat. "I don't know why you lot have got the bloody idea in your head that I couldn't be with Mycroft for anything other than kissing arse. It wasn't Sherlock's damn place to do what he did, and I'd appreciate it if you just bugger off."

It was getting terribly difficult to conceal his anger. Dimmock was a decade younger than him, but with the way he was swaggering, he was the bloody PM. His words didn't seem to deter him at all – hell, if anything, it only spurned him on. "Come now, if anything, Sherlock's to be _thanked, _isn't he? Isn't right for you to hide your little relationship with 'My'." The smirk grew into a sneer. "I can rightly think that the interns'll steer clear if they know you're dating _him." _

"_Dimmock." _Greg's voice quieted into a growl, and he stared up at him. "Get the hell out of my office. It's not any of your business, and I swear to God, if I hear you saying anything about it again, I'm putting you with Sherlock for a month. Now _bugger away." _

Dimmock couldn't help one last jab. Just one. "Let me guess, it was because of your ex-wife, yeah? You always get desperate when you're rebounding. But, here's some advice. If the only two people in the world were your _ex-wife _and _Mycroft Holmes, _I'd stay with the former."

Oh.

Oh, no. No, he did not.

"_Dimmock!" _It wasn't yelled. However, it was spoken with such force and authority that Greg realized he was now staring, pointing at the door with one steady hand. "_Out." _

And Dimmock left. When he did so, Greg just collapsed back into his chair. He turned miserably on it, his feet dragging across the floor. Dimmock left him with a bad taste in his mouth. It wasn't that he felt anything akin to love for his ex-wife, but for God's sake, it didn't exactly leave him a happy man. He tried to do paperwork again, but every so often, an intern would just stand outside his office and stare. Anderson did the same, but Greg just flipped him off and the man scurried away. As soon as he did, Greg felt a tad guilty over it.

When it came to be lunch, Greg just grabbed his bag and gently shifted his papers into it. He shrugged on his jacket. If he wanted to go home early, he'd have to go to Sally – although he outranked her, she was the woman Greg trusted most on the force. And maybe, he needed a bit of cheering up.

"Hey, Sally." Greg mumbled to her at the coffee machine, pushing a hand through his hair. She raised her eyebrow at his appearance.

"Somewhere to be, Greg?" She turned to brew the coffee. With a wave of her hand, she wordlessly asked if Greg wanted any. He shook his head.

"You got the text, I'm guessing." At her nod, he sighed. "Dimmock put me in a sour mood, and it's not going to do well for anyone on the team. I've already flipped Anderson off." Instead of growing indignant, Sally snorted. "I think I'll just head back. I've got paperwork with me, so I don't think it should be too much of a problem." He ran a hand through his hair and groaned. "It's just an entire bloody mess, but I'll be over it by tomorrow. I'll talk over it with Mycroft, and we'll figure out what to do. Sorry for not telling you, by the by, but…you know. I didn't want it to get out."

Sally finished making her coffee and stirred a few sugars into it. She turned around to face him again and sighed. "Greg, I don't really give a damn who you shack up with. Nobody here is a fan of Mycroft Holmes – hell, I know I'm not. But if he keeps you happy and keeps you off the bloody booze, Greg, then don't let me stop you." Taking a sip of her coffee, Sally winced. "Stuff is shite."'

It wasn't exactly a whole-hearted gesture of approval, but God help him, it was the most positive reaction he'd gotten all day. "Thanks, Sally. It's just not for promotion or company or whatever else everyone seems to think it's for. It's…I don't know. I love him."

Chuckling a bit at that, Sally placed her cup on the counter. "Don't get soft on me, Greg. You're not the sort to go off kissing arse, especially for something like a damn promotion. And your first choice for companionship is booze, not bloody Mycroft Holmes. So I know why you're with him, and that's all well and good. Bring him to the Christmas parties. It'll be fun."

God, did he love Sally Donovan. Despite her rather obvious faults, she was a good person. Deep down.

It didn't take him long to get home. However, as he shrugged off his coat and placed his bag to the side, Greg felt a festering anger.

They both dealt with anger in different ways. Mycroft would retreat within himself. A few cold, passive-aggressive comments, occasionally a direct insult. He would become a machine, in truth. Greg? No, no. He was like a time-bomb. Poor Mycroft. On Greg's bad days, he would just brood on the couch until Mycroft came by, and then he'd blow up. His bad days didn't happen often.

So that was how he was. He lounged on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand and another in his stomach. Just these two, he promised himself – but he knew he couldn't properly keep his promise.

He was _angry, _goddammit. Angry that his ex-wife turned out to be a serial adulterer and it was right underneath Greg's nose. It took bloody _Sherlock _to point out that she wasn't being faithful. Angry that his ex-wife had refused to divorce for so long, settling for a separation only. Angry that Greg couldn't bring himself to date again until he was legally divorced from the damn woman. Angry that she had gotten custody of their child, leaving Greg with pitiful visitation rights. Angry that he had refused Mycroft's help to change any of that. Angry that people thought he was with Mycroft for anything other than love. Angry that he worked with idiots. Angry that his ex-wife had slept with Anderson out of spite. Angry.

How many glasses of wine had he drunk? He couldn't remember.

Brooding on the sofa, Greg shut his eyes and tried to calm down. That effort was completely shattered when he heard the door open.


	4. Chapter 4

A lunch with Mummy. Mycroft went on the dreadful things on occasion, usually as a way to placate her. She would grow antsy if out of contact with her children. In the end, Mycroft could hardly blame her. Their father (her husband) had died some years before, when Mycroft was just an adolescent. He tried not to think about it much.

It was after his father's death that Mycroft killed emotion. Or, rather, tried to. He could play the part pretty nicely. How _easy _it was to hide the emotions from his physical person. Inside, however? Inside, he felt like the most emotional fool in the world. Emotional enough to be tormented and used, yet, by various partners that he had the misfortune to take on.

Somewhere in his mid-twenties, however, he realized that love was a fickle and altogether unreliable thing. So he had cut out emotion all together. The only thing he earnestly cared about was his own brother, and he would vow that it would _always _be the only thing he cared about.

Lestrade came about and mucked it all up, yes, but Mycroft could hardly call himself angry.

After Siger's death, Mycroft had always regarded his Mummy as unobtrusive to strangers, but strangely ambitious when it came to her own two children. Mycroft vehemently disliked how Sherlock treated her, but there was nothing that could be done. He had always been the 'good son', and unless Sherlock got over his ridiculous inferiority complex, he always would be.

Ten minutes late. Mummy had always been less than punctual. Mycroft just sighed and sat back in his chair, attempting to feel better about the day. His life wasn't _ruined, _after all. Everyone in his life just knew about his relationship with the Inspector. And everyone would be thinking less of him for it. That was all. His hand tightened on his umbrella and he scowled for a few seconds.

He had never been _insecure_, per se. Well, at least as an adult. When he had been a teenager, he had been emotional and depressed and withdrawn, but that was behind him. However, there was always a certain touch of _strangeness _that accompanied his relationship. After all, Lestrade was _Lestrade. _Sweet, kind, handsome, loving, affectionate, caring, patient, gentle, _handsome. _And Mycroft was…

He knew what Lestrade thought of him. The hopeless lover had thought it appropriate to remind it to him, every day. It never ceased to make Mycroft blush, and Lestrade took some sort of joy in that. Still, though, Mycroft couldn't help but cynically wonder _why him. _It wasn't the easiest relationship, and never would be. Happiest, however? Mycroft was confident over that.

"Oh, Mycroft!" Mummy Holmes walked in. As usual, she was clad in finery that bordered on excessive. She was one of the few people in London that still had fur. _Proper _fur, which Mycroft had come to wrinkle his nose at. Lestrade's soft heart extended to animals, as well, and Mycroft couldn't say that he hadn't been influenced a tad. "You look well, dear. A few pounds, I think? Marvelous!"

Mycroft's hand clenched underneath the table. Yes, he had a problem with his weight when he was younger. Yes, his mother had noticed. Yes, his mother made _comments _as to how much weight he lost or gained. It irked the hell out of him. Either way, he forced a smile to his face. "Thank you, Mummy. You look very nice, as well."

He could make a few other comments. She'd gotten her hair cut recently, had changed her shade of lipstick, had bought a new pair of earrings. They were all commonplace observations, but Mycroft didn't make any. Only Sherlock liked to show off his deductions. Mycroft only liked to correct him.

They soon drifted into conversation. Inevitably, it drifted into the topic of _marriage _and _children. _

"Do you remember Frederick, dear?" Mummy asked, leaning primly back on the chair. "That lovely boy you used to be friends with when you were younger? He got married to the most _wonderful _young woman, and now they've just had a child. Isn't it absolutely bewitching? The baby's the cutest little thing, dear, you should see it." She gave him a conspirational wink which Mycroft detested. "Perhaps it will get you to action, yes?"

Oh, _yes, _he remembered Frederick. Frederick, who was tall and had a terrible left hook and who had a predilection for beating upon his little brother. Mycroft had taken more injuries for his little brother than he cared to think about.

It wasn't that Mycroft actively disliked his mother. She was still a grieving woman who missed her husband very much, and had only her two sons and her various proper friends to keep her company. But Mycroft had had a bad day. This little _lunch _was a bad idea when Mycroft was in such a bad mood.

"Ah, perhaps." Mycroft murmured, stirring some sugar into his tea. Lestrade had a child. Granted, Mycroft had only met the lovely young girl on one or two occasions. Lestrade hadn't gotten to see her much more than that. There was a little hope in Mycroft that, one day, when he and Lestrade were more permanent, they could perhaps…_acquire _the child. It was a foolish and sentimental goal. "You know my work, Mummy. I can hardly stand it as it is."

"Oh, you sound just like _Sher_lock." The first word, as always, was emphasized. _Sher-_lock. Oh, Mycroft, _Sher-_lock has gotten himself into trouble again. _Sher-_lock, why don't you ever pay attention in classes? Why couldn't _Sher_-lock ever get a date? Mycroft shook his head.

He wasn't sure when the decision to tell her came about, but he supposed it was a decision made in anger. Mycroft wanted, so desperately, to prove himself. To have _someone _approve of his relationship. All he had been given was crass looks and muted snickers, but God help him, he _needed _someone to look at him and Lestrade and not think it heinous. Anyone. At all.

"I do think I'm a touch different from my brother." Mycroft responded, reaching for his wallet. "If you must know, I have someone. Currently. We're not in any situation to get married, you understand, but that still puts me leagues ahead of my brother." _So would you quit comparing me to that drug-addicted, childish twat. _

If he had been in his right mind, that was to say, his _unangered _mind, he would have been less cruel to his own brother, even if it were just inside his head.  
His mother lit up in surprise, and let out the most indelicate squeal. "Oh, _Mycroft_! You have? Why ever didn't you tell me! Come on, now, a photo. I must see her."

_Her. _

Oops.

It wasn't that he had never _told _her, really. He could only chalk it up to her divine ignorance. She never noticed his complete disinterest in women, or the way those horrid blind dates she put him on never ended well. Either way, Mycroft was too far in to head back now.

"His name is Gregory." Mycroft told her dully, sliding the photo over to her. At least it was a good photo of him – Mycroft had plenty of Lestrade with his hair sticking up, looking dog-tired, or generally just looking like a homeless man. This one was particularly sentimental to him. Because of the nature of their relationship, they couldn't really _go out _often like a normal couple. There had been one ceremony that Mycroft had been invited to speak at, and when he had gotten up there, Lestrade had been sitting in the audience.

To that day, Mycroft didn't know how Lestrade had gotten in. He could have used some resources to find out, of course, but he didn't really want to spoil the allure of it. And Lestrade had looked _stunning. _

"He looks rather…_boorish, _dear." Mummy tutted at him under her breath as she examined the photo. Her lips creased into a frown as she ran a finger over his hair. "And I must say, he looks rather old for you."

Mycroft's mouth went dry.

Very well. No need to grow upset over it like a petulant child. That was Sherlock's duty. So his mother didn't like his choice in partner. He shouldn't have expected otherwise. Now Mycroft felt the need to protect him, and he damn well would.

"It's…" No, that wasn't right. His voice sounded raspy. He sounded like a teenager who had just been rebuffed. "Prematurely grey, Mummy. He is actually a full year younger than I am." His eyes fell to Lestrade's face, and stupidly, he felt better. "The poor thing. Ever since he was thirty, or so he says. I'm more inclined to think it was twenty-five."

"Ah." Mummy Holmes gave Mycroft a withering smile. His mother very rarely condescended to him – hell, Mycroft had been fully mature by the age of fourteen. "And how did you meet this…gentleman?"

She didn't know about the rest of Mycroft's unfortunate relationships. They'd been none of her business, after all. He took a deep breath before replying. When he did, his voice didn't waver. "Sherlock works alongside him on occasion. I had the pleasure of meeting him during a case of Sherlock's. We both hold a mutual concern over the boy, and…" Damn it. Blushing. "Well. Things…took off, as the saying goes."

"You both worry over Sherlock?" His mother gave him a slightly sad smile. "Oh, dear. Have you ever thought that…perhaps…well, I mean, for all of his faults, Sherlock _is _rather attractive…and, not that you aren't, dear. But…" She made a wishy-washy hand gesture, and Mycroft's hand clenched.

Of all damned things. Mycroft shut his eyes for a few moments, composing himself. When he opened his eyes again, he appeared, for all the world, fine. "I assure you, there is nothing like that. Gregory treats Sherlock as his own son. If he secretly wanted to get to my younger brother, he would have done so by now."

"Oh? And how long have you two been…?"

"Months." Mycroft assured her, with no small amount of satisfaction. Indeed, his smile grew into a small sneer as he sipped at his tea. "We live together, you know. Have been for…oh, a good while now."

Mummy made a slightly annoyed noise in the back of her throat. She had long since set her tea away from her, and now looked slightly ill. Mycroft hadn't taken her as homophobic – then again, he would be surprised if his mother held any real opinions at all. Perhaps she wasn't homophobic, but just…snotty. A very real option.

"But, Mycroft…" Her voice lowered to a small whisper. "He looks so _common." _

"My Gregory is anything but common!" Mycroft retorted in the similar quiet whisper, and he chewed the inside of his cheek painfully. "We are not from the same social bracket, no. But he is everything I could ever hope for, and by God, Mother, I am _not _an adolescent. I am not going to sit here and convince you why I will continue to stay in Gregory's company. Do you understand?"

"You could do better." Mummy, in the end, was a Holmes. Married into the family, of course, but a Holmes nevertheless. And Holmes did not back down. She straightened her back and fixed Mycroft with a stare. "He's underneath you, Mycroft-"

"Rather the opposite, actually, I'm usually underneath _him, _but good guess regardless." Mycroft spoke with an acid tongue, pushing his tea away.

His mother gave a revolted sniff. "He's already influenced you. You used to be so proper, Mycroft, what ever on Earth happened? I would more like you to be alone forever than for you to marry the _common class. _And this _Gregory _seems to be the very definition of it. How many tattoos does he have?"

"You may have forgotten, but we are in modern times, Mother." The official title was spoken with a good amount of sarcasm. "And he has none. He's respectable. Wonderfully so. I cannot imagine what I would do without him."

"Have children, I imagine." His mother grumbled, closing her eyes. "Why do both of my children enjoy hurting me so badly?"

"Gregory has a child from a previous marriage."

"Oh! And he's divorced before. Wonderful. A drinker, I suppose?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at her. "Too trusting, rather. His wife was a serial adulterer. And if this relationship continues, which I do not agree but strongly endorse, then I fully intend to take custody of the child. Which would make you, in essence, a grandmother. Congratulations."

With that said, Mycroft stood and paid for their meal. He knew that he would send a very apologetic message to his Mummy later – he was stressed at work, he had previous worries, he was nervous about his relationship. He would give her every reason under the sun, and they would make up. Perhaps Mummy Holmes would never _like _Gregory Lestrade, though Mycroft made a mental note to have them meet soon.

He got into his car alone and hit the steering wheel. Much like a child. God, he was so damned _angry, _and for Mycroft Holmes, it was especially potent. It was such a rare emotion to have. Annoyance was common, but bald-faced, pure _anger _was rare. He couldn't take it out on his Mother – he did have some class, yet. Even those few acidic comments he had made towards her had hurt.

His mobile buzzed and Mycroft groaned. Of course he didn't want to answer, but he also didn't want to let the world fall to pieces because of him. It was a message to Anthea, with two videos attached.

_I think you should see this, sir. _A

The first video was strange. There was Lestrade, tied up in a chair. Initially, Mycroft felt his heart squeeze in fear. He didn't think much. Only the word _no _went through his mind, over and over. _No no no no no no no no no no. _

Then there was Sherlock in the frame, and his fear quickly turned into confusion. Confusion then melted quickly into anger.

Sherlock had sat in Lestrade's lap, had put his arms around him, and had gazed at him with warm eyes. Lestrade was staring back, and the video was too poor quality for Mycroft to see Lestrade's face. The video cut out before Mycroft could see anything more. Frankly, he didn't want to.

He didn't want to watch the second video, either.

But he did.

Greg had freed himself from the chair and was staring at Sherlock, red-faced. He appeared to be absolutely livid. With the voice Mycroft understood as his argument voice, he shouted at the boy, "Bugger off, you bleeding wanker! You have no idea why the hell we're together, and it's not like a machine like you could understand what it's like!"

The video cut out, and Mycroft felt sick to his stomach. The nausea passed quickly, and Mycroft realized his former anger.

Whatever had happened between the two of them, it came down to one simple fact. Gregory had called his brother a machine, and that was intolerable. Even if Sherlock had seduc-

No, couldn't think about that. That led to painful memories, and that led to the absolute opposite of anger. Mycroft drove home quickly, feeling wretched.

He opened the door and pushed a hand through his hair, wanting (needing) a drink. What's more, Mycroft thought inwardly, he needed a fight.


	5. Chapter 5

_(( And this is it, ladies and gentlemen! If you've read my chapter 3 author's note, then you'll know I had loads of time to write. Long enough to start another Mystrade story, at any rate. From some people, I've heard Archive of Your Own is a better platform for stories. I may go check it out, but I'll try to upload the stories on here as well!))_

Greg was still brooding when he heard Mycroft slam the door shut. A drink was in his hand, and he wasn't sure how many there had been. He still had his wits about him, thank God. If he was going to get into an argument with Mycroft (about _one bloody drink), _then he had to be in top mental condition. Even then, he'd get his arse beat. That thought, about how he was so intellectually inferior to the man he loved, made him grind his teeth together.

"Careful with the damn door!" Greg called over, and the footsteps halted in the foyer. He downed the rest of his drink and rested back in his chair, staring with angry eyes towards the hallway.

How damned the entire world was. Nobody liked his relationship with Mycroft. Hell, even Sally just _tolerated _it. This was why he hadn't told anyone – because things like this would happen. Sherlock would panic and cause a scene and Greg would get angry and Mycroft would feel torn and it just involved too much _feeling _for Greg to enjoy.

"_Greg_." Mycroft never called Greg by his nickname. Upon questioned why, Mycroft had responded with a light laugh that his nickname was so common. The only time he broke that rule was during arguments. So they were having an argument, then. Great. Bloody great.

Greg poured himself another glass of wine, even though he had promised himself not to. He sipped at it as Mycroft came into the room, and he raised his glass high in a mock toast. "All hail the Queen." It was a bit low (and a bit preemptive), but the liquid courage had indeed done its magic. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

His voice was miraculously calm. "How much have you been drinking?"

"Well, I don't think it bloody matters." Greg half-slurred at him, but placed it down. In truth, he wasn't drunk. Just a bit reckless, maybe. He narrowed his eyes at him and stayed in his chair. "Yard knows everything, by the by. Because of your goddamn frea-" Somewhere in the back of his mind, Greg knew that _that _wasn't the best idea. "Because of your goddamn brother."

"You are not to speak of my brother in such a manner." Mycroft repeated at him. As always, Mycroft was calm, cool, and kept his composure. That was what always happened during arguments. And Greg couldn't stand it. Absolutely couldn't stand the Ice Man sitting across from him while Greg made a proper fool of himself.

"Oh, don't pretend you properly _like _him, either. He's a proper bastard." Greg spat back at him, leaning back. "Wonder how he turned out that way."

Mycroft often teased about his brother. Gentle jests, here and there. Nothing serious, and both men knew it. But Greg had made a low blow. Not that he much cared. He wanted to get out his frustrations, because it bloody _hurt _to realize that nobody Greg cared about approved of who he loved. It was like a Shakespeare play, in all honesty.

Mycroft didn't seem right. During arguments, he _was _cold, withdrawn, proper. There seemed to be a certain stiffness to his movements that Greg knew wasn't usually there. It took a few seconds for Greg's alcohol-addled mind to realize that Mycroft was just as angry as he was. He spoke with a sickening venom. "If _I _made him the way he is, it is still a good lot better than you treat him, Greg."

Greg twitched in his chair. He could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead. "_I _treat _him?_ Do you know what he bloody did to me this morning? Christ, Mycroft, I could have him arrested for so many damn things. And _I _treat _him _badly?"

Mycroft blinked at him and then tossed his mobile. A video was playing on the screen. Greg played both and his face went a tad bit pale – more particularly at the second than the first. "Look. Mycroft, you've no damn right to say I was in the wrong there. He's your goddamn brother. He's a fully-grown human being who, if you've not forgotten, bloody kidnapped me!"

"Likely he did it out of good will. It is the only time he's shown the most infinitesimal bit of caring about my well-being, which should be _encouraged, _not _discouraged, _Greg. I do hope those words weren't too verbose for you." Mycroft responded to him, his eyes flashing. "You watched the first video, I trust? You hesitated quite a bit before you pushed him off, if you recall."

Greg spluttered in utter foolishness for a second before he stood up. "I don't bloody need this. You understand that, yeah? I'm not just some bloody _callboy _you can keep around. That's what this was, wasn't it? I was all for keeping it secret, yeah, because it'd be hellishly difficult for _you _to deal with. But you? No, no, you just didn't want me in your personal life. That's what it bloody was. All this goddamn time."

He knew he was drunk and he knew his logic was flawed, but Greg didn't particularly care. Instead, he just jabbed a finger against Mycroft's chest and went past him. Out the door, even in his rumpled clothing. Mycroft didn't chase after him. Greg didn't want him to.

His immediate thought was to just _walk. _They lived in a relatively safe neighborhood, and Greg didn't think anyone would overcome a slightly drunk Inspector. However, he saw his bike, gleaming about on the pavement. His motorbike was his baby. Motorbikes always had been.

In the end, he took it because Mycroft hated him on it. Mycroft always said it would be the death of him. As soon as he started it, though, he heard rapid thumping throughout the house. Mycroft appeared at the door, pale as a ghost, but Greg was already speeding away.

oOo

Mycroft's heart was pounding out of his chest. His doctor always told him he was more susceptible to heart attacks, given his position and stress levels. Now? He felt as if he were going to go down and die, right there.

Why would Gregory take the damn _bike? _He fully expected him to traipse about in the cold for a little bit, and then come back in when he was through feeling sorry with himself. Then he had heard the damn engine and almost died, there.

He was drunk. Perhaps Gregory wouldn't want to admit it, but he was drunk and certainly in not fit state to be gallivanting about on the bike. Immediately Mycroft's fingers fumbled for the number of his associates. Soon, people would be around all over London to catch him. Before he got himself killed.

Still, he wasn't in the state of mind to admit that he had been wrong. Perhaps he had been _forceful, _authoritative, but never _wrong. _Greg shouldn't have spoken to Sherlock in that manner, because Mycroft, as a Holmes, knew how Holmes thought. In his own twisted little way, Sherlock had thought he had been _helping. _

If he wouldn't admit that he was wrong, he sure as hell wouldn't admit that he was terrified out of his bloody mind, too.

Terrified that Gregory had grown affection for Sherlock. Terrified that Gregory would, indeed, think that Mycroft was ashamed of him. Terrified that Gregory would relapse into the drinking again. Just terrified.

Even moreso, now, that he was all around London in his bloody bike.

Mycroft went back inside his home and shuddered to himself. It was, in essence, the first decent relationship he had had. The thought that Gregory would leave him, or worse, die tonight, frightened him more than he could possibly say.

Oh, why couldn't he just be _honest? _He should've told Gregory about his past relationships, how he had been so public with them, how they had all ended badly. How he was frightened that he cared far more for Gregory than Gregory cared for him. If he saw him again, he vowed, they would sit down together. On amiable terms. When neither of them was angry for the slights of the day. And then they would speak.

oOo

Greg didn't know the last thing he remembered. There'd been the initial euphoria – wind through his hair, the engine roaring beneath him, all thoughts of anyone resembling _Mycroft _leaving his mind. Beyond that? Not a fucking idea. It came to him with a remarkable clarity five seconds on waking up.

White walls. How often had Greg been in a hospital? Too many, obviously, but it certainly ranged in the dozens. He blinked blearily and tried to get a good look at his body. There was no oxygen tube on his nose and no feeding tube in his throat, so that was a massively good sign. His leg was propped up and in a thick white plaster, which was less than optimal, but still tolerable.

He caught himself in the mirror directly and winced. There were large, angry red marks on the side of his face. His eye looked blackened, and he had a large bandage on the side of his temple. It looked like it had hurt. Not much of a pity, then, that Greg couldn't remember it.

"The first was when I was fourteen." There was a voice from beside him, and Greg turned his head. A painful shock ran down his neck as he did so, and he let out a groan. At the noise, the figure reached over to grab his hand. Mycroft.

The night came rushing back to him.

Another groan came out, though not from the physical pain. Mycroft kept going as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"We were both children, I suppose. It never got particularly serious. In truth, I never _really _liked him or enjoyed his company. I was just a horrendously ugly child, and for the first time in my life, I believed that someone _wanted _me. Not need me, Gregory, there is a tremendous difference." Mycroft swallowed beside him and ran a thumb over his knuckles. "Of course, it was all just a dare. A cruel one, yes. He ended it while we were at a party together, and how everyone _laughed." _

Greg didn't know why Mycroft was telling him this. The entire night flashed before his eyes. Shouting at Mycroft, getting drunk, going out on his bike…hell. He opened his mouth and got out a "My," before Mycroft shushed him and kept on going.

"The second was when I was seventeen. I was in my first year of Uni at the time, and I met the most wonderful man. He seemed everything that I wanted. Intelligent, handsome, soft-spoken. I was deliriously happy with him, Gregory, you must understand." A look of pain flashed across his features. "Happy enough, then, to sneak him the occasional confidential file from my work or to ignore it when he got a tad too violent when he was angry. I suppose. There was a…a bad night, I suppose, and he shouted and did the most awful things. I packed my things and left. I've not seen him since."

At that point, Greg didn't bother to speak. He just propped himself on his elbows as best as he was able and leaned up to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft leaned away from him, and it damn well nearly broke his heart.

"No, Gregory. I…I must finish. I promised I would, you know, I should have said them last night. Or…perhaps not. I do not know, yet." Mycroft cleared his throat and kept a firm grasp on Greg's hand. "The last was when I was twenty-two. You must understand how wary I was of getting into another relationship, but he was so…earnest. I refused to have lunch with him dozens of times, and he would continue to ask in the most…_endearing _of ways. Either way, I agreed, and we soon…entered into a relationship. He was a few posts lower than me, hardly more than an intern. I didn't mind. We were nearly of the same age, regardless. I felt like I was in love with him, you know." He sighed. "And then I went home one night. He hadn't shown up to dinner, and I was worried that something had happened. I caught him in bed with one of the secretaries. A female one." Although Greg didn't register that Mycroft was crying, he remembered thinking it odd that Mycroft had leaned up to wipe his cheek. "He mentioned that he wasn't gay, that he didn't feel attracted to me, that he didn't even _like _me, Gregory. It was all to advance his position. I was heartbroken."

Greg did lean up to kiss him again, and Mycroft let him. His hand drifted up to curl around Mycroft's head comfortably, and he stayed in that position for a good few minutes. "Jesus Christ, My. That's…shit. That's all proper shit, you know that?" When he returned to his position, he patted the bit of bed next to him. "Come here. I think we need to have a little talk."

"I suppose I should let you know that if you ever do anything like this again, I will kill you." Mycroft insisted at him, but did move to sit. "And…I'm also very, very sorry. I overreacted, and I was upset, and I said things that I did not mean."

"No. You didn't do a damn thing, Mycroft. I'm the one who got all riled up and the one who got drunk and the one who started it. It was just…_everyone _found out, My, and none of them were fond of it, and I just…I wanted _someone _to be alright with it. You know?" Greg asked him. He put one arm around Mycroft and rubbed his shoulder contentedly.

"I was no different. I even thought that going to my _Mother _would help, Gregory. Honestly." Mycroft snorted, and then they were silent for a little while. If Greg had to guess, they were both reflecting as to how Greg had (inevitably) crashed.

"How's the bike?" Greg finally asked, leaning his good cheek against Mycroft's hair. Mycroft hissed and huddled Greg closer to him.

"Absolutely totaled, thank God. You flew off of it, I heard, and then a lorry slammed into it. You skid for a little while." Mycroft commented, rubbing his shoulder again. "I mean it, Gregory, ever again and I will be killing you. You couldn't imagine how…how _frightened _I was. You'd get yourself killed over something that I said in anger. I'd lose you."

Greg smiled down at him. "Yeah. I think I'll be staying off the bike for a little while. But…er, for what it's worth. I love you. Like bloody _mad._I think you're the most brilliant, and sweet, and handsome man. Nothing's going to happen like your other relationships, eh? I'm with you for the long run."

Mycroft offered him a shaky smile, but otherwise said nothing. His cheek felt warm against Greg's shoulder.

"We should get married." Greg finally chirped, patting his back. "And be open about it. _Everyone_ in London should know."

At that, Mycroft completely froze against him. Greg was worried he had done something wrong. "You're asking me _now. _After we've had the largest argument in our relationship, after you nearly died, after I told you about all of my past relationships. You're asking me now. You're not even asking, Gregory, honestly."

As soon as the last syllable was spoken, Mycroft had swooped up and was kissing him hard. It hurt a bit, and with regret, Greg pushed him away. "Broken here, lovey. Be gentle."

"Of course I won't _marry _you." Mycroft nearly spat at him, snuggling once more against his good shoulder. "Later, of course, if you ask while I'm not falling to pieces, I'll say yes. But you're to wait until you are not broken anymore, Gregory."

"It's not that bad, really. We could go get married. Right now."

"_No, _Gregory."

"Come on, love. I love you."

"And I love you. Always."

"Please?"

Mycroft stifled a laugh. "_No."_


End file.
